


A Marriage of Convenience

by Calais_Reno



Series: Fin de Siècle [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Book: The Sign of the Four, F/M, M/M, Marriage Proposal, POV Mary Morstan, Victorian Attitudes, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21617023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: Mary Morstan explains why she married John Watson.This is part of a Victorian AU. Each part is told as a separate story; reading the other parts will enhance your understanding of the overall arc of the series.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Fin de Siècle [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551937
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	A Marriage of Convenience

For a woman, beauty is both a blessing and a curse. A beautiful woman will have no shortage of men willing to marry her, no matter how poor she is, and for a poor woman, marriage is the best outcome. Beauty is a curse as well, for it eclipses any talents or abilities she might have. A beautiful woman’s role is simply to be beautiful, to be an adornment to her husband, to produce beautiful children. She must maintain her beauty as she ages, until people consider this her crowning achievement, that she led a beautiful life, became a beautiful corpse.

I did not realise any of this when I was a child. Not being beautiful myself, I simply had no awareness of how it might have affected me. My father, I suppose, had hoped for a son. He was an army officer and the owner of a very small estate that was entailed to a male cousin. Living as a country gentleman was not his heart’s desire. He allowed his cousin to move into the house and took my mother with him to India, where he was stationed. There I was born. I remember my nurse, a dark-skinned woman who was like a second mother. I remember playing with her children. Before I was old enough to acquire any solid memories, my mother died. I remember her vaguely, a gentle, pale woman who always seemed to be ill.

I was still a small child when he sent me back to England, reasoning that my best prospects lay in a proper education and the possibility of marriage. He did not express any of this to me, but he was a good man, a good father, and understood how uncertain life can be for a woman of limited means. He found a place for me at a reputable boarding establishment in Edinburgh, where I spent the next ten years. I missed him terribly, though he wrote often and visited every few years.

Most people would agree that there is something charming about a little girl. I was not charming, nor did I acquire any beauty as I grew. Friends told me that I was _sweet_ and _refined_. Teachers called me _sensible,_ praising my intelligence and urging me to think of a teaching career. But I was what most people would charitably call _plain._ My hair was thin and fine, refusing to hold a curl. My face lacked any regularity of features, and my complexion was dull. I tried to make up for my uninspiring appearance by smiling amiably. There were few opportunities to meet young men, and those I did meet preferred my prettier friends.

I felt that time was running out. For what, I did not know. Girls my age were walking out with young men, talking of engagement and marriage. I spent my evenings alone.

And in this way I gradually came to realise what life would be for a girl like me. My father was an adventurous man, and he encouraged in me an interest in life beyond what women are generally taught. At school, I learned all the feminine skills— fancy work, penmanship, drawing, music, conversation. I read extensively, and longed to travel. I hoped that my father would eventually retire from the military, return home, and we could set ourselves up in a modest home. I saw myself keeping his house, being his companion, taking holidays abroad. Being an old maid did not appal me. I cheerfully accepted this as my fate.

It was in my final year at the boarding school that I met a young man named Walter Merrick. A dashing young redcoat of great charm, he was introduced to me by the family of one of my girlfriends. My intelligence did not repel him; he confessed that he enjoyed our conversations immensely. We walked out a few times, and I began to fancy myself in love.

For the first time I saw a chance of having a husband and children. My father was preparing to travel back to England, where he would remain for a year before taking another post, and I thought I would introduce Walter to him. It was foolish of me to think he would ask for my hand, but I did hope for this. He had given me every indication that he loved me, though I was plain, but I can clearly see now what I did not understand then.

Men marry for two reasons: money and lust. If a man has no money, he must look for a woman who has it. If he is lucky, she will not be ugly or disagreeable. If he has money, he looks for an ornament. I clearly did not have money. Not being an ornamental woman, I should have realised that Walter was not seeking a wife.

It is a very old story. He told me he loved me, but had not enough income to marry yet. I told him of my small dowry, and he said it might be enough, if only he could get a promotion. To do that, he would have to go abroad. The night before he left we spent together. Up until then, we had never even kissed or embraced, only held hands. That night, he held me in his arms and I understood why women trade their virtue for promises. I was foolish enough to believe that he would return and marry me, and gave myself to him.

For weeks I wrote to him. I received five letters from him, each after a longer interval than the last. Finally, there were no more letters, and I knew. He would not return for me.

I was fortunate. No unwanted child was conceived as a result of my folly. I had an education that would let me find work as a teacher or governess. Though I had no illusions about my beauty, I had experienced a love which, though mostly spun of my own fantasies, had left me with five love letters and the memory of one night of passion. Few old maids can claim such accomplishments. I put the letters in a box along with some dried flowers and a cheap bracelet he had given me. I had no picture of him, which was just as well. I would keep my fantasy, not the man.

I traveled to London to meet my father, who had finally returned. In my letters to him, I had not written about Walter. Telling him now would serve no purpose. I packed my bag and took the train, leaving behind my girlhood.

We were to meet at the Langham Hotel on the fourth of December. I took a cab there and was informed that he had checked in, but had gone out the night before and not returned. I waited all day without news of him. It was not unusual that he would go out, I told myself. He no doubt had friends in London whom he longed to see, and had mistaken the date of my arrival. I read a book, and made some notes in my diary. Night arrived, and I began to lose heart. The hotel manager could not tell me where he had gone, and recommended that I go to the police. Advertisements were placed in all the papers, but there were no replies, not even one small clue. I assumed the worst, that he had somehow been killed. His body was not recovered, leaving me to speculate.

When I had recovered from the shock, I applied for positions, accepted one, then another, but these were temporary. Finally I took employment as a governess with Mrs Cecil Forrester. Her children were bright and well-behaved, and she kindly gave me free time to pursue my other interests, which were mainly scientific. I loved to walk in the area, noting the different species of birds and plants. At night I often watched the sky and, with Mrs Forrester’s permission, took the children with me sometimes to learn about the movement of the stars and planets.

I was happy, I suppose. No trace was ever found of my father, but I had not spent much time with him since I was quite small, and though I missed him and shed many tears for him, my grief was something almost abstract. I had lost the future I had expected, but aside from his letters, which I still kept, he had not been a large part of my past.

The police detective who had been assigned to the case retired, but still communicated with me occasionally, sending his regards at Christmas each year. By the time six years had gone by, he had died, and I had no one to consult when an advertisement appeared in the Times asking for Mary Morstan to communicate her address, that it would be to my advantage to come forward. I asked Mrs Forrester for her opinion; she insisted that I post my address in the advertisement column.

The result of this was a box delivered that same day, December the third. On opening the parcel, I found a very large and lustrous pearl. I cannot say why, but I knew it had to do with my father’s disappearance. It would have been too much to hope that he was still alive and had sent this to me, but I felt that someone knew something more about his disappearance than what the police had discovered, and had sent this to somehow compensate me for his loss.

Mrs Forrester had a jeweller look at the pearl. He pronounced it to be of a rare variety and considerable value. I might have sold it and used the money to start another life, but I did not. Though I have always been deemed sensible, there is a large streak of sentiment running through my character that compels me to keep letters and flowers and cheap bracelets. I was content with my life at the Forresters, and kept the pearl because my father would have wanted me to have it.

Five more pearls appeared, each of the same quality, each on the anniversary of my father’s disappearance. It was when a letter arrived in the seventh year that I sought advice from Mr Sherlock Holmes.

The letter said that I had been wronged and should have justice. It begged me to appear at the Lyceum Theatre that evening, and said that I might bring two friends if I was distrustful. It warned me against alerting the police.

My experiences have given me a jaundiced eye with regard to other human beings. I would not call myself bitter; I am only cautious and reluctant to allow myself to be preyed upon. I had six valuable pearls which might bring me enough to live on for some years, supplemented by whatever income I might be able to gain from employment, but I had no urgency about leaving my job with the Forresters. I saw the pearls as my pension, a reserve I would eventually draw on.

Thus, it was not the hope of any further gain from my mysterious correspondent that drew me; it was the possibility of solving the mystery of my father’s death.

Mr Holmes was by this time becoming celebrated for his ability to solve mysteries. Mrs Forrester had sought him out over a small domestic matter and was very impressed. She urged me to contact him at once.

So it was that I crossed the threshold of 221B Baker Street for the first time.

I had seen caricatures of Mr Holmes in the Strand, and had read Dr Watson’s stories, so I had an idea what to expect. As a spinster of nine and twenty who no longer considered romance a possibility, I had acquired the habit of looking at men not as potential husbands, evaluating their attentions to me in those terms, but as humans. In truth, I found men more interesting than women, who seemed to be focused on a limited number of things— their own beauty, the dresses and feminine accoutrements they wanted, and romance. Once they are married, they can only talk of what a great burden are the duties of managing a home, servants, and children.

I enjoyed meeting men, and was almost at the point where they no longer looked on me with pity. I aspired to become one of those sharp, learned spinsters both feared and admired by young men. At not quite thirty, I had some years ahead of me to acquire sharpness and learning, and honed my observational skills on people I encountered. My talent for this is not as great as the Oracle of Baker Street, but it was enough to make some deductions about Mr Holmes himself.

It was clear that he had no interest in women, except as the bearers of potential mysteries. He was polite and spoke to me without condescension, even praising me for telling my story clearly and without embellishment. He seemed a bit surprised that I had brought all the relevant evidence with me. From this I could see that he had expected me to flutter and faint and tell an incoherent tale. While some men find these feminine traits attractive, he clearly did not.

My acquaintance with Dr Watson was only through his stories, which had appeared in the Strand. From those I knew that he was a fair writer, clearly an educated man, with a taste in literature that ran more to adventure than romance. I had heard that he was a veteran of Afghanistan, a medical doctor, and assumed he was in his mid-thirties. In person, he was smaller than I had guessed (though one can hardly determine stature from writing style), fair-haired, handsomely moustached, and very gentlemanly.

He excused himself when I began to relate the incidents that had brought me to Mr Holmes. Knowing I would need two companions for the evening, I begged him to stay.

I met his gaze, smiling, and laid a gloved hand on his arm. “If your friend,” I said to Mr Holmes, “would be good enough to stop, he might be of inestimable service to me.”

This produced a rosiness in his cheeks and a widening of his eyes. I had no illusions about any man, and returned his look with composure. He seemed surprised. At the time I did not know if this was their practice, for him to remove himself during client consultations, or if he was used to playing a minor part in investigations. He clearly deferred to Holmes, glancing at him for approval. At his nod, the doctor took his seat again.

I understood at once Mr Holmes’ lack of interest in women. I have met several such men, most of them intellectuals, often bachelors, a few married with children. They enjoy the company of other men and do not expect women to have anything interesting to say. They live solitary lives of masculinity, immersing themselves in scholarly pursuits.

Dr Watson was more difficult to figure out than his partner. He seemed to be one of those men who adopt a somewhat flirtatious manner with women, regardless of age or beauty. He was better-groomed than his partner, whose jacket needed a good brushing. (I deduced that Mr Holmes had been perusing his bookshelf and got dust on his cuffs.)

He was handsome in a conventional way, while Holmes was more eccentric-looking, very lean and angular. I noted his limp, but still saw energy in his movements. As he took notes on my story, he studied me with dark blue eyes. He had an unpretentious manner, an honest face.

And while Mr Holmes seemed like a man who would be content to lounge all day in his dressing gown, smoking his pipe and solving mysteries without stirring from his chair, Dr Watson was a naturally energetic man, I thought. He practically vibrated in his seat, eager to be _doing something._

It was interesting, I thought, that a successful, handsome doctor approaching middle age should still live as a bachelor, and that he should choose to live with a companion uninterested in marriage. Surely he had enough income, between his practice and his stories, to move out on his own.

Over the next forty-eight hours, I attempted to solve the Mystery of the Confirmed Bachelors.

We took a four-wheeler to the theatre. Dr Watson took the seat next to me, and Holmes sat opposite us. In this way I was able to observe a certain telegraphy between the two men as we talked. I was not sure what was being communicated wordlessly, but I could sense a familiarity that made such communication possible. At times Holmes seemed to ask a question with his eyebrows, his head tilted a bit quizzically. The doctor would nod or say a word or two, and Holmes would continue talking. There was a clear affection between the two men, a type of intimacy that men do not speak aloud.

This is not a love story. Once, I might have been made for romance, but I am no longer that person. Yet, I am not foolish enough to think that an unmarried woman’s lot is easy. I would not turn down security. Dr Watson was a decent man, handsome enough to attract a wealthier woman. If he married, though, it would not be for wealth. Nor would he wed for romance.

The doctor was protective towards me. I am no shrinking violet, but at some point I decided that his attentions were fine. By the time our adventure was at an end and Dr Watson brought me the heavy iron box that was supposed to contain the treasure, I knew he would propose to me, and it would not be for the treasure. I had seen it in the nods Holmes had given him. I had seen it in the looks he gave me, as if weighing alternatives.

He set the box down before me, his honest face unable to hide the ambiguity he felt. I had no uncertainty about the matter. If the box contained a fortune, there would be few richer women in England than me. I would not need a man and would turn down his offer. If there was no treasure, I would not refuse him.

The box was very heavy, and I felt sure it had to contain something. He borrowed Mrs Forrester’s poker to open it, seeing as the key was at the bottom of the Thames. Thrusting the end of the poker under the hasp, he twisted it. With a loud snap, the hasp sprang open.

My fingers did not tremble as I lifted the lid. He gasped.

It was empty. Not one jewel or piece of metal was inside.

“The treasure is lost.” My voice was calm.

He raised his eyes to mine. “What will you do now?” he asked.

“I will continue as I have,” I replied, making my voice light. ”School teachers and governesses are always in demand. Or perhaps some elderly widow will desire a companion. I will make my way.”

“You could marry,” he suggested.

I smiled a bit archly. “Someone would have to ask me first.”

“What kind of person would that be?”

“I am nearly thirty, Doctor. I am not wealthy, nor am I beautiful. The man who asks me would have to be a bit desperate, I would say. Either poor or ugly.”

He laughed. “You have other inducements, Miss Morstan. You are intelligent and refined, sweet and amiable. You have a sympathetic disposition that any man would find attractive.”

“You make a good case, Doctor. But you are a man, and men in general do not know their own nature. You, for instance, would never marry a woman like me.”

He squirmed a bit under my scrutiny. “Why do you say that? I am hardly a good prospect. I am thirty-five, an army surgeon with a weak leg and a weaker bank account—”

“You are handsome.” I laughed at his surprise. “Handsome men do not pick plain wives unless those women are wealthy. You have a respectable career which provides you sufficient income, should you decide to wed. And you are amiable. Men may think that women look only for wealth and status in a husband, but, to be frank, women will refuse the richest man if he is a tyrant. You, however, could propose to almost any woman and she would happily accept. Do not smile, Doctor: I am the last woman a man like you would ask.”

“But if I did?” he asked.

“Are you proposing marriage to me, Doctor Watson?”

“I am.” He got down on one knee. “Miss Morstan, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

I did not answer at once. His face was shining with hope. _I might have this man_ , I thought. I imagined looking into those lovely eyes every day, maybe even having a child with lovely eyes like his. I knew he did not love me, but he would be grateful, and would try to be a good husband.

When I finally spoke, it was with something like resignation. “If I had gained the treasure, I would turn you down. I would then have enough money to live as I please. But my prospects now are limited. I am too old to attract a man whose proposal I would accept, but too poor to turn down any offer. Your proposal is unexpected. You are, perhaps, a fool to ask me; for my part, I would be a fool to refuse you.” I paused, studying his reaction. He was not a duplicitous man; my words had surprised him, I saw. “I will marry you, Doctor Watson. If you want children, I am willing. I cannot guess your reasons for asking me; nor do I think that you love me. But if you will respect me and provide for me, and give me freedom to pursue my own interests, I think we could be married.”

Our wedding was small, neither of us having friends or family. Sherlock Holmes did not attend.

**Author's Note:**

> Mary's description of herself is based on Dr Watson's description of her in The Sign of the Four, whose events are summarised here. 
> 
> Dr Watson describes her thus: "Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature."


End file.
